


Until Tomorrow

by Lumieres



Series: the way wind blows [1]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-19
Updated: 2016-07-19
Packaged: 2018-07-25 08:43:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7526083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lumieres/pseuds/Lumieres
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You usually get off at the last stop,” he says, answering Keith’s questioning gaze. “I wasn’t sure if you missed it or—“</p><p>Keith falls asleep on the bus. A man wakes him up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Until Tomorrow

****A hand on his shoulder rouses Keith from his sleep. His heavy eyelids raise to see a man standing in front of him, concern gracing his features. He’s tall and muscular, a build any boy would envy. A part of Keith knows _he_ does, but another part just makes him think about all the protein shakes he has to take to gain that muscle mass. For some reason, his hair reminds Keith of a skunk, but he doesn’t say anything. Instead he’s still trying to determine whether he’s awake or still between the blissful lines of sleep and consciousness.

“You usually get off at the last stop,” he says, answering Keith’s questioning gaze. “I wasn’t sure if you missed it or—“

Between the stupor, Keith manages to mumble something, a grateful thank you is what he hopes it is — it probably isn’t. As he peels himself from the seat, he stumbles down the steps and yawns. The sun’s final rays sprinkle through the trees just behind the bus stop.

It’s been a long day, he realises and he can’t wait to go home and just slump in his bed.

He then scans the place around him. Eyeing how that house _isn’t_ usually there and that fish and chips shop isn’t _that_ close to him. And he’s usually not _this_ close to a supermarket. He then realises the weight of the man’s word on the bus and groans loudly.

“I missed my stop,” he mutters to himself. “I really did miss it.”

At least he’s close to the supermarket, he decides, and flings himself in that direction. It's almost dinner time and he knows how empty his section of the fridge is. If he remembers correctly, he has expired milk still sitting in the carton. 

Reaching out for his backpack to fish out his wallet, he stops suddenly. Eyes wide, he spins around and notices the clear empty shoulder where his backpack _should_ be.

Bursting into action, he sprints after the bus. The light is still red, it’s still idling. He could reach the next stop in time. He totally could do it.

As the light changes to green, his hopes fade a little.

“Shit,” he mutters and he decides it’s worth a shot.

Even if he’s on the sprint team, he knows that it’s unlikely that he’s going to beat a fucking _bus_ . But he tries anyway. His entire school life is in that bag — his notebooks, his laptop _and_ his phone.

As he nears the bus stop, it’s already driving away.

He’s probably lost his bag now. Someone’s probably taken it. Taken the laptop, the money, just everything that he took so long saving up for. Gone.

He slams his hands on his thighs and breathes out heavily. Two feet fill his vision but he’s too busy trying to catch his breath that he doesn’t do anything.

“Wow.” There’s a long whistle that follows.

Keith’s still breathing out heavily but it’s making his chest burn. All he wants to do is fall on the footpath, defeated.

“Did you just run all the way here?” The voice is strikingly familiar, just like that kind voice that told him he missed his stop just minutes ago.

Keith just nods. It’s still too painful to speak.

“You’re fast _and_ impressive,” the man notes, light amusement tinging his voice. “I was going to hopefully find you again on the bus tomorrow. But it looks like you’ve cut my work out for me.”

The man just holds his bag easily, as if it’s not heavy at all. Keith’s still too stunned to say anything and his mouth opens and closes, trying to find the words.

“Th — thank you,” Keith stutters as he cradles his bag between his hands. “I thought I lost it forever.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t come out after you when I noticed,” the man says as he runs a hand against his neck. “It was a little too late.”

“No, no,” Keith says. “Thank you. I — I … how can I pay you back?”

He thinks about the money he’s just earnt from fixing up someone’s car at school. It’s enough for him to buy his groceries for the week, but between the job he has on Saturday mornings and the occasional car he gets asked to fix at school, he doesn’t know if he _can_ afford to give up some money.

“How about coffee?” Is his flippant response.

Keith almost chokes on his own saliva.

“Don’t worry,” he replies, laughing. “It’s nothing.” Then he holds a hand out and Keith just stares at it dumbly as it encroaches on his personal bubble. “Takashi Shirogane, but people call me Shiro.”

“ _Shiro_ ,” Keith repeats, as if cherishing the name. For some unknown reason, he finds himself smiling. He takes Shiro’s hand and shakes it. “I’m Keith.”

But there’s something strange about the hand, something that he can’t quite put his mind on. It’s colder than he expects it to be, with a man of such warm demeanour.

“Sorry,” Shiro answers the question that Keith thinks but dares not to ask. “It’s a prosthetic.”

“I see,” Keith nods. He’s loitering here, wondering if _Shiro_ will continue the conversation. When he doesn’t, he says, “Well, I should be going home now.”

“I’ll walk you,” Shiro smiles. “Seeing as you’ve gone two stops further than you usually do.”

The smile makes something twist in Keith’s stomach and he can’t quite put a word on the feeling.

“If you want,” Keith shrugs. He’s trying to sound nonchalant, but he’s happy that Shiro’s walking with him. “But it means you have to walk the distance back.”

“Not a problem,” Shiro replies.

They lapse into a companionable silence and Keith wants to say something but everything comes jumbled in his mouth.  

“So, you at school?” Shiro asks.

“College,” Keith says and he’s not sure why he has to say that. “Yeah, I am.”

“But a mechanic already?”

Keith’s surprise makes Shiro laugh.

“Sorry, I see you fixing cars at the local mechanic every Saturday on my jog,” he answers. Then he says as a side thought, “I’m not trying to stalk you.”

“But the mechanics is a good four kilometres away,” Keith exclaims. “You mean you run _there_ and back?”

“More than just there and back,” he says.  “About 16 kilometres.”

It _should_ sound like he’s showing off but he says it with a calm that’s anything but. Just a matter of fact.

“I just... need the money to pay the rent,” Keith says, his voice distant. It’s strange that he tells a man who is basically a stranger that he needs the money, but somehow it feels _right_ to tell him. After finally getting free of the child-care system, he chose to rent out a small room at the back of a newly- wed couple’s house. The rent is cheap, but there are weeks where he can barely scrounge up the money to pay them. And there are days where he guiltily eats parts of their left-overs — just enough for them not to notice — at early hours in the morning. "And hopefully somehow pay for college." 

"How much?" There’s genuine concern in Shiro’s voice and it makes Keith’s heartache. 

"Even with a scholarship, too much," Keith replies quietly. 

“They underpay you,” Shiro says. His eyes twinkle, as if he’s holding a special secret. “I know they do. A mechanic your skill level should be paid at _least_ fifty an hour.”

Keith’s eyes widen. “No, that’s not —“

“It’s true,” Shiro interrupts. “The men at the air force would love someone like you fixing up their planes.”

“Planes,” Keith just repeats. He doesn’t really know a thing about planes. But mechanics. That’s what he knows best. “They’re different from cars, aren’t they?”

“The heart is similar,” Shiro says. “When you listen closely, cars and planes beat the same.”

Keith tucks away that he should probably learn more about planes later on.

“How about you?” Keith prompts. “What do _you_ do?”

“Hm,” Shiro makes a thoughtful sound, as if trying to find the best way to impress Keith. At least, that’s what Keith thinks he’s doing. “Not much, as of right now. Just a test subject for this.” Shiro holds his hand up and he pushes his sleeve up to reveal the arm attached to his shoulder. “I was just coming back from the hospital.”

“Oh,” Keith says a little dumbly.

“It pays well,” Shiro shrugs. Then another wistful smile finds its way onto his lips. “Especially when you give them the sob story that you lost it fighting for your country.”

“You’re a soldier?”

“ _Was_ a pilot,” Shiro replies. “Hard to be one when you can’t really control your other arm.”

“How does it work?” Keith asks, noting how the man’s face contorts into something that’s to the left of happiness.

His fingers are itching to touch it. The way the metal is connected to each other and the way that the joints allow for full motion is absolutely _beautiful_.

“It connects to my nerves,” Shiro replies, lifting his hand up. It moves seamlessly and Keith finds he’s getting more and more entranced by it. “And when I want to lift it up, it moves. Like magic. I don’t _really_  know, the science really makes my head hurt.”

“It’s beautiful,” Keith whispers. He lifts a hand out and draws it back just in time.

“You can touch it.” Shiro gives him an indulgent smile — something that you would give to a child.

As Keith fingers it, he makes sure he learns as much about it as he can. He’s like an explorer, searching through unknown territory, excavating and turning over each stone for new information.

“But how does the hand work especially?” Keith asks. “I mean… a hand is complex. You know?”

“Ask the scientists who made it,” Shiro laughs. “I can’t really explain, I just think and it does. But I do have to think a little harder than I would my left.” He wiggles his left hand’s fingers.

“Oh, this is my street,” Keith says shyly as he realises that they’ve closed the distance really quickly. He wishes it lasted longer, but he doesn’t want to miss his street again. He hesitates, unsure what to say next, but there’s a warmth that’s blossoming in his chest that he can’t quite explain.

“Have a good night, then,” Shiro tips his head. “And don’t lose that bag again.”

Keith fishes out his phone from his bag and hands it to him. “Can I — “ his voice trails off and he’s unsure why he’s asking, “have your number? Please?”

Shiro just smiles warmly, but part of him hesitates. Then he nods. “Of course.”

 

* * *

 

“Keith.”

Keith wipes his greasy hands on his overalls as he rolls out from beneath the car. He stops for a second, examining part of the car that’s _not_ meant to look like that. He begins fiddling with it, hand out to grab the wrench. It connects easily to the loose bolt.

“ _Keith_.”

The loose part twists back into place easily. His finger rubs against the paint job that’s slightly faded and he wonders if the owner wants a new coat. Poor car, though, he decides. Her owner doesn’t take good care of her and she’s been to the mechanics at _least_ twelve times this month. The owner has realised that if he asks Keith to fix it, the time between repairs is a lot longer.

“For fuck’s sake, _Keith!”_ There’s a loud thump beside him and he jumps, almost hitting his head.

He slides out completely and raises his safety glasses above his head. With an exasperated sigh and a stare that means, _I’m busy,_ he says, “What is it?”

“Some guy is asking you to fix his bike,” the other mechanic says. He taps his foot on the ground impatiently. “Wants _you_ in particular. So I guess I can take this job.”

Keith doesn’t say a word; he’s learnt over the years that it’s best to just do what you’re told. They don’t seem to like him and he has no qualms about that.

He gets to his feet and and takes his tool kit with him. He makes his way out of the garage and onto the main car park, breath hitching as he sees who it is.

It’s Shiro.

The man is standing there with large aviator glasses and worn leather jacket. His smile is what makes Keith miss a step. It’s unexpected, beneath the tough exterior.

“Of course it’s you,” Keith says as he inspects the bike. He kneels down beside it and traces his fingers over each part. Shiro _clearly_ takes care of it and with one quick sweep, it’s hard to determine the problem. “What’s wrong with it?”

“Oh, it’s not really starting,” Shiro mutters.

“It’s not starting?” Keith repeats dubiously.

“Yeah.”

He’s about to investigate further, look at the wiring and other sections, but he knows that he should just try the simple things first. Like turning on the engine.

Keith sends a questioning gaze. “Can I try?”

He holds out his hand and Shiro drops the keys into his palm. As he shoves the key into the ignition, he twists it. The motorbike rumbles to life.

Keith angles his head in askance. “I believe it is working.”

“You must have magic hands.” Shiro rubs his hand against his neck and his cheeks are reddening. “Here.” He shoves a fifty dollar note into Keith’s hands.

“Shiro,” Keith says and he pushes it back. “I only turned on your bike.”

“Take it,” Shiro urges. “Please.”

Keith narrows his eyes. “This can’t be all you’re after.”

“Oh,” Shiro stops. “I — uh — dinner? Tonight?”

Keith splutters in surprise. He manages a, “Sorry?” But now _his_ cheeks are also burning to a shade of crimson.

“Would you like to go for dinner?” Shiro repeats. This time a little slower. This time, as if he’s figured out what he wants to say. “Tonight.”

Keith is still unable to form words. It’s almost like he’s jumping off a diving board but the water is never coming. Now he’s wondering when he’s going to break the surface and realise that all of this is a complete mistake.

“I’ll pick you up,” Shiro nods. Then he adds as a side-note, “If you want.”

“Uh —”

“It’s fine if you don’t want to go,” Shiro says, mistaking Keith’s hesitance for rejection.

“No — no— no,” Keith shakes his head. He pushes the fifty back into Shiro’s hands. “Sure. Please, I would love that.”

At this Shiro’s smile is warm. As warm as the sun. “I’ll see you then.”

 

* * *

 

Keith doesn’t know _what_ to wear. He’s literally only got _two_ formal shirts but he can’t decide which one he wants to wear. They’re both red but one is a lighter shade and the buttons are slightly different. He finally just decides he has to wear one and puts the darker shade on, buttoning it. He spins around in his horribly small room and tries to find his mirror to investigate what he looks like exactly. He flattens his hair and groans loudly, falling onto the bed.

A couple of text messages buzz on his phone beside him and it’s _Lance_ asking him who the lucky girl is. His other close friends are also messaging him relentlessly and he just wants them to shut up. He shouldn’t have _ever_ declared it in the group chat.

 

 

>   _Keith_ , why did you stop replying to us!?? — Pidge
> 
>  We need to know all the details. — Lance
> 
> I need to know all the details. You don’t want to keep me in the dark, bro! — Lance

Keith shakes his head. It’s _not_ a date, just... just two men going out for dinner.

 

> Bro!! — Lance

He buries his head in the pillow. What does this even mean? He’s about to throw his phone away and ignore everyone else’s messages when he gets another that’s different from all the hype he’s been receiving.   

 

> I’m outside.

Shiro.

Keith bolts upright and bursts into motion. He’s fixing his belt around his waist and he shoves his phone and wallet into his pocket. The newly-wed couple are in the kitchen doing something that Keith doesn’t want to see, so he manages to escape their attention by darting across the living room.

And there’s Shiro just standing by the door. He’s keeping his distance as Keith crosses the threshold — and Keith _hates_ that he notices that.

“Uh,” he holds out his hand, asking for permission.

Keith stops, panic bubbling in his chest. “What is it?”

“Let me fix up your sleeve,” Shiro says and it draws Keith’s attention to the fact that it’s half folded, with parts sticking out. He stares in horror and almost recoils at Shiro’s touch. But the older man’s touch is delicate. When he finishes, Keith manages to mumble a small _thank you_.

It’s stupid, he realises. The way he hesitates around this man, the way he isn’t too sure how he’s meant to respond. Usually he _doesn’t_ care.

“I hope you like pasta,” Shiro says as they walk towards his motorbike. The man swings his leg over the bike. “Hold on tight.”

Keith pauses and then wraps his hands around Shiro’s stomach.

As Shiro turns the engine on, he tosses a glance over his shoulder. “Are you ready?”

“Yeah,” Keith says and suddenly it feels like they’re flying. The wind rushes through his hair and they’re going at speeds that only Keith would ever imagine. “You’re speeding.”

“You don’t like it?” Shiro asks as he slows down significantly. “I’ve never got a speeding ticket.”

“No,” Keith murmurs. “You just — why do you take the bus if you’ve already got a bike?”

“I’m technically not meant to be riding one,” Shiro says. “Because of my arm, but as long as I’m safe, who’s to know?”

They stop at a light and Keith settles close towards Shiro. The man in front of him stiffens significantly but relaxes a second later.

“You know,” Keith starts as he rests his head on the man’s shoulder.

“Hm?”

Keith says the words before he's able to process them. “This feels like a date.”

This draws a low laugh from Shiro. “It’s meant to be.”  

* * *

 

“You’re on the sprint team?”

The conversation had happened so long ago. Between the days he keeps spending at Shiro’s place and the days he goes to school, he’s lost count how much time has passed. How long they’ve _known_ each other.

But he’s sure they’ve been seeing each other for at least three months now.

However, it’s drawing close to the end of the year. He’s getting close to graduating. And he hasn’t _told_ Shiro what his plans are. And Shiro _hasn’t_ asked. The two of them have the questioning hanging between them, however, like something that’s awkward and cumbersome to hold, but they hold it anyway.

“Yeah,” Keith remembers saying. “Fastest in my school.”

That conversation has made Shiro specifically competitive, drawing them out to the local running track. It’s the same every time. Shiro says, “On your marks, get set, _go_.” And Keith beats him.

Easily.

The man isn’t built for sprinting. Keith is lithe and sprightly, Shiro is better at running long distances. In no world would you ever see Keith run 16 kilometres for _fun_ . Also better at lifting weights — even _without_ his robotic arm. Whenever they’re alone, Keith finds himself giggling when Shiro uses him to bench press.

“Let’s see if I can do it,” Shiro nods, a dangerous look flashing across his eyes.

“Beat me?”

“Yeah,” Shiro grins.

“You can’t, old man,” Keith laughs. “But I’d like to see you try.”

Today is no different.

The heat bites at Keith’s fingertips and he wonders why they’re out, but it’s become habit. They jog to the sprint track and do a couple of warm ups. Keith makes sure he stretches every muscle and they prepare their race.

“On your marks,” Shiro says. “Get _set_.”

But he’s running at full speed already. Keith, startled, scrambles after him. With a head start, it’s tight competition as Keith tries his best to catch up. His legs are pounding beneath him at a speed he’s never thought he’s capable. As they reach the hundred metre mark, he finds his legs tangling  beneath him. He falls and rolls, wincing at the flare of pain rising up his legs.

Shiro’s looking over him and the concern on his face makes Keith laugh.

“You cheated,” Keith says.

“It was the only way I could win,” Shiro says as he traces his finger on Keith’s face.

Keith breathes out and squeezes his eyes shut. “Ouch, though.”

“You caught up to me,” Shiro laughs. “That’s impressive. You’re _fast_.”

“Well, I did almost beat that bus,” Keith nods.

Their silence is comfortable. Keith finds himself memorising everything about Shiro. The way the right corner of his lip is higher when he gives his toothy smile, the way his hair falls across his face when they do their runs. And _especially_ the laughter lines when his eyes crinkle in happiness.

“I’m graduating soon,” Keith murmurs.

“You are,” Shiro says.

“I got my letter,” Keith says as he sits up. “From the air force.”

“Oh?” Shiro arches his eyebrows in surprise. “I hadn’t known you applied.”

“I just — didn’t know if I was going to get it,” Keith mutters. “I almost bombed the endurance test.”

His breathing is heavy. He should've told Shiro before, but every time he was about to, he would change the subject. He had planned to leave the city since the beginning, even before he met Shiro. But he never had the guts to tell him that he wanted to go. Now, the sadness tightens around his chest and he has to tell him now. 

“So you’re going to become a pilot?” Shiro’s so close to him. Their noses are touching and Keith wants to lean in, to initiate a kiss, but he doesn’t.

“I need to money to pay for masters, can't keep having two jobs at once,” Keith replies. “Make up for the years of mechanical engineering serving them? Is that how you do it?”

“It is,” Shiro says, slowly. “Why didn’t you tell me earlier?”

“Because I didn’t know how you would react,” Keith sighs.

Shiro’s expression is a mixture of pride and sadness. “I’m proud of you.”

Keith bridges the gap between them and brushes his lips on Shiro’s. It’s one of the first kisses they have and Keith secretly thinks, probably their last. He tries his best to hide the heat behind his eyes as he blinks back the tears. But as their kiss deepens, it’s almost as if their desperation to keep each other in their own hands increases tenfold.

A first kiss as a goodbye kiss.

And for the first time in his life, Keith wonders if he’s made a mistake.

**Author's Note:**

> And [ silent_masque ](http://archiveofourown.org/users/silent_masque) has promised to write a sequel.


End file.
